


Five Months

by captbarnes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Cancer, Implied House/Wilson, M/M, Terminal Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29295351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captbarnes/pseuds/captbarnes
Summary: One-shot AU in which House gets cancer instead of Wilson, House takes too much chemo instead of Wilson, and House refuses further treatment instead of Wilson. Set in S8 E18-21.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Five Months

When House stares him in the face and says, "I have cancer," Wilson's first instinct is not to believe him. House says a lot of things very convincingly, and of course he would choose cancer; he's talking to his oncologist best friend.  
  
Later, Wilson will think that not believing House makes him a shitty person.  
  
Even later than that, he will realize that it's not a reflection on what kind of person he is, but rather, what kind of person House is.  
  


* * *

  
  
It's a horrible, awful, stupid idea, and Wilson hates that he's agreed to it. If anyone should find out, he'd surely have his medical license revoked — hell, he'd likely go to _prison_. Giving a patient this amount of chemotherapy in such a large dose, and in such a short span... it's asking for death. He knows that, House knows that, but yet here they are: House sprawled out on the leather couch in his apartment, bundled up in a sweatshirt and flannel pants, hair matted to his sweat-drenched forehead. The IV is like a thin, threatening snake, protruding from his right arm and trailing under and around the coffee table. Wilson's brought a couple of magazines to keep him occupied over the next few days, although he knows that House owns enough medical literature to keep him at work for months — and anyway, he hasn't touched any of it. He just sits in the armchair next to the couch, staring at House, watching his chest rise and fall.  
  
When he thinks the room sounds too quiet, he gets up and listens for House's breathing, always careful not to wake him. He knows how difficult it must be to get any sleep like this in the first place.  
  
When House is really passed out on the third day, Wilson drapes a Hawaiian shirt over him and finds a sombrero in the back of a closet. He takes photos that he thinks he'll send to House later, knowing that he'll find it amusing and that hopefully, it will be some sort of break from this hell they've found themselves in.  
  
(It's more of a hell for House, he supposes, but imagining life without him is its own hell.)  
  
Several days later, they go back to work, and House finds a framed photo of himself in a truly pathetic state and sombrero on his desk. He collapses into his office chair and laughs until his stomach hurts.  
  


* * *

  
  
They're sitting in his office when House finds himself having a conversation he swears he's already had — except that time, it was Stacy, and now, it's Wilson sitting in front of him and looking dewy-eyed. "What would you tell your patient if it were them?"  
  
House doesn't miss a beat. "I'd say it was their decision."  
  
"Bullshit," Wilson answers immediately, because they both know that's the furthest thing there is from the truth. "You'd berate and insult them until they made the choice _you_ wanted them to make."  
  
House nods once, an acceptance. He doesn't point out that the only reason Wilson is harassing him about this is because he would do the same thing to one of his cancer patients who wouldn't attempt treatment. He doesn't say that because he knows Wilson picked it up from him.  
  
"House, I know you're scared—"  
  
"Oh, don't start the soft oncologist act with me," he groans, pushing his chair away from his desk to massage his leg. "I'm not some blubbering eight-year-old who needs you to tell me that everything's gonna be fine. It's not gonna be fine, and you know it." His free hand goes for his desk drawer and produces a small orange bottle, which rattles when he removes the cap. "We tried to treat it and it didn't work. The thymoma is bigger than it was before." He shakes out two Vicodin from the bottle and replaces the white cap, then swiftly swallows them both dry.  
  
The reminder of it all — the thymoma's growth, the days he'd spent watching House on the verge of death — stuns Wilson into momentary silence, but as usual, he bounces right back. "The treatment _has_ a success rate—"  
  
"—of 30 percent—"  
  
"—30 is still more than zero, House."  
  
House rises from the desk chair, one hand still splayed out on top of his thigh, and reaches with the other for his cane. "Thank you for the math lesson," he says sarcastically. "Anything else, or can I go and find out whether my patient's heart has exploded yet?"  
  
Wilson looks at him hopelessly for a moment, then moves to leave. He does have actual work to do, and anyway, changing House's mind is a pretty fruitless endeavor. "Just think about the treatment, House. I'll administer it myself. If it's too painful, we don't have to contin—"  
  
"Great. Bye!" House shouts once he's out of the office and halfway down the hall.  
  


* * *

  
  
A week later, after they've come to the agreement that House does not want to spend his last five months in a hospital bed (and after he's compared Wilson to Stacy in a voice too loud for apartment living), he's asleep on that same leather couch. Monster trucks are revving their engines on the small tv screen and takeout containers are littering the coffee table. Wilson's sure he's asleep when he reaches for House's beer, his own now empty, and no cane swats his hand away from it. Satisfied, he takes a swallow and sets it back down.  
  
House looks so much different when he sleeps. It's the only time that Wilson's ever seen him be really at peace. The weight of the next five months wash over him and he swallows a lump in his throat, blinking quickly.  
  
Softly, he says to no one: "I love you, House."


End file.
